


To Marry a Crown

by Ione



Category: Crown Duel - Sherwood Smith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/pseuds/Ione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In those desperate days after a goldenwood tree smashed through the throne room ceiling, Princess Elestra thinks it right to give Meliara a warning . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Marry a Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsceetaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsceetaria/gifts).



Neither Meliara nor Vidanric remembered all the details of those first desperate days after the great tree burst through the throne room ceiling.

 In some ways, Meliara thought as candle change followed candle change with the newly betrothed pair scarcely able to exchange ten words, and those always before a crowd, the cleaning up of the throne room was symbolic of Remalna’s need for some kind of country sized broom. There was so much to be done, where to begin?

 For a week, the rubble lay there, the servants (already burdened with too much to do) waiting for orders that never seem to come. Those first few days, Meliara mostly slept, stayed out of Vidanric’s way, and dealt with her personal affairs, beginning with her promised letter to Ara.

 Then she had to face the inevitable reactions to the news going out that she was to be the one to sit on the Goldenwood throne. (Or rather this throne's replacement, as Flauvic had destroyed both the new and the old.)

 Branaric laughed, slapped her on the back, and shook his head. “Life! I’ll never understand you, Mel, but leastways, now I don’t have to begin. That’ll be Danric’s affair, and he’s the man for it.”

Nee clasped her hand, her delight taking a great many words to express, but Meliara cherished every one.

 Her friends made it seem like it was going to be easy. Deric did not hide his surprise and delight. Russav did not hide his lack of surprise, but he expressed twice the delight in a way that Meliara knew was genuine. Meliara eyed him, baffled, saying, “Well, it sure was a surprise to me,” causing Renna to exclaim with heartfelt generosity, “We are long overdue for some good surprises,” and Trishe hugged her, whispering, “You will make a wonderful queen.”

 Even Tamara had been . . . polite.

 But then the news spread outward. Some were surprised, some were amazed, some made a decent pretense at being pleased. Then there were those who looked at her sidewise, as if thinking that she had laid a clever trap for Vidanric, and unlike Flauvic, she had succeeded.

 This disconcerted her so badly she was left bereft of words, hiding her dismay lest Vidanric see it. It was then that Princess Elestra sought her out.

 Meliara’s brave attempt to pretend that nothing was wrong scarcely lasted two breaths after the diminutive Princess took Mel’s hands and said, “You are so very much like your mother. She would do just the same thing, hide her own hurts lest they hurt those she loved.”

Meliara bit her lip, looked upward with those honest eyes, and Elestra's throat tightened at this reminder of her dear Ranisia as the words came rushing out.

Nothing that Elestra was hearing surprised her. She could have warned Meliara ahead of time, having predicted with tolerable accuracy exactly who would say what.

 It was always a danger to expect a child, any child, to behave precisely as had their parents. In so many ways dear, oblivious Branaric was the very opposite of his irascible, reclusive father. And yet he was like the old count in his inability to perceive the subtleties of court behavior.

 Meliara was not Ranisia. Elestra knew that. She also knew the desperate need for guidance for this brave girl who flung herself with all her passions into any impossible situation because she believed it was right. Ideally the best person for that would be Vidanric. But that would be in an ideal situation — in a peaceful, pleasant courtly scene, with plenty of time for training in the intricacies of royal etiquette.

 They were not going to get that time. In all the ways that mattered the relationship was new, tender as a rootlet threatened by the deadly frost of courtly ambitions . . . And, stars! That reminded her of the dreadful tree.

 No, though instinct urged her to be sympathetic, that was not what Meliara needed. Empathy, yes. But mostly she needed perspective.

“You know, my dear, you are very like your mother. She was the only one who suspected that the Merindars were involved in dark magic. People scoffed at her as much as they scoffed at the idea. Of course it turned out that the Marquise was not the one secretly training, just as everyone had claimed. But Ranisia had been right in a sense, for it was Flauvic who had been getting the lessons. My point is, Ranisia saw need, and she threw herself into learning magic, struggling on her own because she had you two, and your father, and Tlanth to look after, which kept her from going north to a magic school to be properly trained. And here you are, thrown into a situation for which you also have a talent—”

 “I wish I had a talent,” Meliara exclaimed as she wiped her eyes.

 Elestra said calmly, “You have a talent for organization, as you demonstrated in Tlanth. Your brother certainly does not possess it. Under the worst sort of circumstances, and without any training whatsoever, you managed quite well. And so it will be with queenship. But, as you found with governing Tlanth, it helps to obtain guidance. You wisely sought it from Julen and Khesot and your secret spy. I am hoping that you will trust me enough to listen to my words.”

 Meliara gazed at the Princess in dismay. “Oh, your highness, please don’t ever think I distrust you, it’s just that—”

 Elestra patted Meliara’s cheek. “I know what it is. Three times I have heard you begin a sentence with _I don’t want to be a burden to Vidanric._  I don’t think I have to tell you how horrified he would be to hear that. But yes, yes, I can see it in your eyes, you love him so much you do not want to add to the truly monumental weight of responsibilities facing him. I also don’t think I have to tell you that the best way to help him is to share them. But where do you begin?”

 “Yes,” Meliara said thankfully. “That is exactly it. And when people think that I tried to trick him . . .”

“Let them.”

 Elestra had not thought that Meliara’s eyes could get any wider, but now she discovered that she was wrong. With the ease of decades of practice, she hid her secret bubble of amusement, and said, “Do you not see it? Those who would think such a thing are looking for that sort of behavior. Don’t deny it. They won’t believe you anyway, and denial will just give them an excuse to further despise you. Let them believe that you outmaneuvered Flauvic, and so even if they might not yet like you, or they would not be looking for such contemptible motivation, they will respect you. I fully believe that your subsequent behavior is going to be proof enough that you are not the calculating, conniving person that, right now, they seem to want to see.”

“If you really think that is best . . .” Meliara said dubiously. Her brow furrowed, then she said in a quick, low voice, “I guess I was afraid that Vidanric would hear that, and wonder if it was true.”

This time Elestra could not prevent the laugh. But as she leaned forward and kissed Meliara on the brow, the latter could not take offense. She could perceive the compassion that Elestra did not hide.

 This conversation had begun in Meliara’s outer room, where she had been hiding. The Princess beckoned, saying, “Come. I think there is something you must see.”

She led Meliara to the royal wing, where she and the Prince had taken up residence at their son’s behest. Meliara was relieved to find that they were alone. The Princess closed the door herself, and drew Meliara into a sumptuous room in white with accents of green and gold. Indicating that Meliara should sit on one of the silken green cushions, the Princess vanished into another room. The tapestry had scarcely ceased billowing when she reappeared, carrying a carved wood box that looked ancient. The Princess sat next to her, and opened the box, which emitted a faint, pleasant scent of cedar.

It was full of papers, some tied with ribbons. Some looked very old, the ink faded. She handed these with careful fingers. “I have your mother’s letters here,” she murmured. “One day you must read them. But perhaps not yet. At the end is your father’s letter, denying my request to adopt you. He was so offended by my offer that he forbade me to visit or even to communicate with you.”

 “Papa was . . .”

 “He was your papa. I mention it only so you understand how very much I had wanted to be in your life. But that is the past,” Elestra said briskly, as she sorted through a pile of newer letters. Then she handed one to Meliara. “Read that.”

 The letter had been folded small and pressed flat, as if hidden inside something else.

 In wonder, Meliara carefully opened the paper, blushing when she recognized the slanted handwriting which had occasioned the first stirrings of love.

  _My dear Russav:_

_In my last I complained about the mud. If only my problems now were so simple._

_Last night one of those damned traps was sprung--the tenth, I believe--but instead of one of us, it got one of them. Debegri, of course, has been gloating all over the camp about that. The healer reports that the victim appears to be one of their scouts; no trained warrior, this, but one small and scrawny female. It pains me that Tlanth is reduced to using such. What can they be thinking?_

_Later:_

_Well, I had to come back here lest I betray myself. My interview with the Tlanth scout was most salutary. Size is no measure for courage. Small as she is, and in spite of what has to be an extremely painful puncture from that trap, she told me off in grand style. It was so difficult not to laugh—especially at the look on Debegri's stupid face—I had to retreat._

_And not just to recover my equilibrium, but to think. Despite a quite spectacular coating of mud, that supposed child has an unsettling resemblance to the portraits of the Calahanras kings and queens hanging forgotten in the Athanarel gallery . . ._

_Later:_

_I might see you before you see this. Still, I will send it down the mountain with my courier, just in case you do get it first._

_You once accused me of having an instinct for trouble. It certainly seems to have proved true. My prisoner is none other than Tlanth's sister. She's asleep now, and I fear quite sick from a necessarily precipitate ride halfway down the mountain, entirely to keep her out of Debegri's talons. The man is insane, I think. But not interestingly so; he's even more stupid than I'd feared, twice as venal, with a lamentable taste for torture and blood, if his conversational habits are anything to judge by. Infinitely wearying. The single benefit that I can see is that I actually prefer Galdran's company. At least the man listens to music._

_Galdran apparently granted Debegri freedom to chase all over the mountains, I believe to keep him well occupied and away from the royal city; as you feared, Galdran did not like my successes, slow them as I would, but at least my removal from command will thus protect the Tlanths' hapless attempt at an army, who have earned my sympathies. Debegri is far too stupid to see how to find them, and I took good care to keep my observations about their movements to myself._

_As for the Tlanth sister—Meliara is her name, I was right about the Calahanras connection—I see no other way around bringing her to the city. Maybe Galdran will waste time trying to hostage her against her brother, which will gain us enough time to put another plan into place. I don't know, though. He's still too angry over that letter._

_Oh yes, the letter was really theirs. It was not a ploy on the part of the Marquise, as some surmised. Quite proud they seem to be of it. Meliara, alas, is as earnest as she is ignorant. But she's very far from stupid. Just uneducated, a lack she makes up for in wit and temper. I wish you could have seen her light into me over our campfire last night! You would have expired from mirth at her discourse on court decorations, a delightfully old-fashioned term she must have culled from her equally outspoken mother, if all reports be true. Were the end result not so predictable, I could wish to see her take a whack at Galdran. Our friends would get years of quiet retribution from the spectacle of her free speech and unstintingly blunt insult._

_As it is, you must warn my mother to look about her. Galdran's thirst for blood and blame is as predictable as his cousin's, and the truth is, however ignorant they might be, the Tlanths are also right. They will not die for speaking the truth if I can possibly contrive it._

_I will arrive tomorrow. Warn all our allies to be ready for whatever might happen._

_Danric_

When she had finished reading, Meliara looked up, her expression troubled. “I see that he doesn’t despise me, but in a way, it’s almost worse, because I so despised him.”

 “He was aware.”

 Meliara winced. “I made sure enough of that.”

 “But don’t you see how he cherishes that?” Elestra leaned forward.  “Not at the time, of course. Who would? But in retrospect he does. In a court of dissembling, smiling liars, affectionate-seeming poisoners, double-dealers and secret conspiracies, your honesty was the one thing he could count upon.”

 Mel looked away.

 “Secondly, he knows that you did not despise him. You didn’t _know_ him. You despised the persona he felt forced to assume. You are going to find that the most difficult part of his recent life was the lie he was living, right alongside all those others conspiring for reasons good, bad, or indifferent.”

Meliara gave a tiny nod. “But he had to. That I understand.”

 “But many don’t. He cannot come right out and say he lied. No one likes discovering they have, in effect, been made game of. He will have to revise his role a step at a time. One of the ways you can help him right now is by sharing those dire opinions you once felt, and how they changed, and even how they might not have, because he has plenty of enemies. He needs to hear all perspectives, not just the court flattery that is inevitable.”

 “He said that, once, when he came up to Erkan-Astiar. I didn’t understand what he meant, but I do now. I think. Why did you give me this, your highness?”

 “Tell me what you see in the letter,” Elestra replied. “Not the circumstances. Look past those, and tell me what you see.”

 Meliara’s coloring bloomed, but the blush faded as she frowned down at the paper. “I always thought he despised me for being a failure. For being ignorant. He said he didn’t, but I thought that was just the sort of thing someone says when things . . . become very much better. You know, when your feelings change, you remember the past differently.”

 “You will discover that Vidanric has a very clear memory. But that is another reason why we are sitting here. The two of you don’t know each other well yet, which lays an extra emotional burden on you both. So I am going to tell you something I grew up hearing: _Remember, Elestra, you will never marry a man, you will marry a crown_.”

Meliara repeated the words under her breath. Then she looked up, her lips parted. She gave her head a little shake.

 Elestra watched, fairly certain she had correctly followed the progress of Meliara’s thoughts, and so she answered the unasked question: “Yes, my circumstances were, on the surface, very unlike yours. My marriage was negotiated between a pair of ambassadors on our respective families’ behalf. It took years—after no fewer than four failed marriage negotiations, all for political reasons. I was in my forties when I married, and Alaerec was five years older, struggling with a mis-healed wound, his heart as wounded as his body.”

 “There was someone else? You didn’t fall in love?”

 “There was someone else, to whom he stayed loyal until he was persuaded to do his duty. But yes, in spite of all these things we fell in love. And so have you and my son, who, like his father, was once wounded in the heart.”

 “He _was?_  Who—”

 “No one in Remalna. And he was just out of boyhood. He seldom talks about those days, except within the family. You will soon be part of the family,” Elestra said, smiling, “and so he will share his experiences in time.”

 Meliara nodded vigorously. “I would never stick my nose in.”

 “He might retort that your nose, and the rest of you, are already inside the personal boundary we all build to protect ourselves. But you have the rest of your lives for those conversations. For you two, love came first, which is in so many ways a wonderful thing, but love is also . . . shall we call it delightfully compelling, and that means the rest of the world is going to insist on its share.”

Meliara’s brow cleared. “I see. I think!” She got up and prowled around the seating platform, then whirled around, her embroidered hem swinging about her feet. “So you’re saying, I am going to be sharing him not with some past lover, but with the kingdom.”

 “That is precisely it.”

“And if I want to help him, I’ve got to find some way to take my half.” She pursed her lips, then dashed off for another round of the room, pausing long enough to slant a smile over her shoulder. “I keep coming up against the, oh, the _boundary_ of my own ignorance.” She stopped, and put her hands on her hips. “So perhaps I ought to begin with the few things I do know? And one of those is how to set about repairing a ruined castle. In this case, a throne room. Shall I?”

“I think that would be an excellent place to start,” Elestra said.

 o0o

Dealing with the detritus of the Merindars’ lives invariably left Vidanric feeling unclean.  He could go straight in to bathe—and did—until he comprehended that the sense of being soiled was more like a stain on his soul. But it must be done, even when he kept thinking he had come to the end of it, then further investigation by the excellent Azmus would turn up yet another series of secret exchanges. It was getting so that the sight of Arthal Merindar’s neat, precise handwriting caused Vidanric's stomach to clench.

 Between those investigations, the days sped past in a blur of endless demand and decision, underscored by a troubling sense that he was failing Meliara. He simply had no time.

 When he walked into the throne room to find Meliara standing in the middle of a swirl of activity, the disquieting sense of incipient personal failure sharpened—had he made a misstep? Forgotten something important? The worry vanished when he saw her smile.

 “Vidanric!” she gave a glad cry, and rushed forward to kiss him, as usual blithely uninterested in the presence or absence of witnesses.

 “You’re supervising the reconstruction?”

 “I’m getting it cleaned up. I wouldn’t actually make any important decisions until we’ve talked, but at least I know what to do about repairs and clearing out. Thought I’d get that done first, and give Flauvic space to grow.” She lifted her hands as well as her voice on the last four words, her small fingers closed insistently around his wrist, and she drew him beneath the Goldenwood branches. Then she kissed him again, adding loudly, “Ah, so _nice_ to kiss someone I _love_. I hope you are watching, Flauvic! Or listening, since I don’t see any eyes. You could use some lessons in love, and I am going to see to it that you get plenty!”

Vidanric laughed, and swept her up for another kiss, the spiritual tarnish vanishing. “I needed that, even if Flauvic doesn’t,” he admitted.

 “Tell me,” she said, her eyes narrowing to that intent focus he found so endearing.

 He gave her the gist of the latest discovery in a few softly spoken words.

 When he finished, Meliara exclaimed, “She really was _evil_. How could that be, and nobody knew?”

 “Oh, I think we had a sense of it, but we saw so little of the evidence. She was very careful and deliberate about that, even to exerting herself to say what was pleasing to those she didn’t—quite—dare to get rid of. My mother, for example, only heard what Arthal thought she wanted to hear, and for many years, Mother kept thinking of Arthal as an amusing hostess with a taste for Sartoran art, who had an unfortunate younger brother. Much of what we blamed Galdran for was done at her instigation. She made certain of it.”

 Meliara gripped her elbows, shivering. “And now she’s gone, killed by her own poisons. And nobody grieves. I think somehow that’s the most awful part, though what she did was horrible. But how nasty, that she’s dead, and nobody cares.”

 Meliara glanced doubtfully up at the tree. “Let’s get out of here,” she said suddenly. “I want him to hear good governing, and talk of love, but not about poison and _her._ ”

 Leaving the workers to get on with shifting those massive pieces of broken marble, Vidanric took her hand and they walked out together, each brimming with things to say, to share, to ask, their entwined fingers a promise of passions to come—and as soon as they walked out the throne room door, there was a circle of faces waiting to be heard.

 The impact on Vidanric was akin to a dousing of cold water.

 Meliara fought the urge to scowl. _This is what Princess Elestra warned me about_ , she was thinking.

 “Even princes get to rest,” she whispered. “If you want to talk, meet me at the library after tonight’s poetry reading.”

 He was then surrounded by messengers, personal, governmental, diplomatic, and military. And not all of them were for him: Nee’s page was also there, with a message begging an introduction to the woman who had done the music for Mel’s ball. _I want them for my wedding_ , Nee scrawled.

 o0o

 Until that day, Meliara had been careful to part with Vidanric after supper, thinking that evenings were his only time to relax—to enjoy a concert, or a dance, to talk to Russav and his other close friends.

 To write letters.

 But that night, after the poetry reading at Khialem House, they met at the archive. Vidanric took her to that little private antechamber he used as his study, and said, “What did you think of the reading tonight?”

 Meliara had made a vow to talk—or not talk—about anything he wanted. “Excellent,” she said, and when he raised his brows, she elaborated. “I don’t really get all that Old Sartoran symbolism. I guess I’ll have to read more history. Here’s what I liked, everyone was in a good mood. I hadn’t seen that since the night of my ball, and it took a full candle to get them that way. That, and vast amounts of drink and plates of expensive food! And pretending to be people in the past.” She saw the thread she’d unconsciously woven, and said thoughtfully, “Do you think it has something to do with getting outside of oneself? Or forgetting the daily round of troubles?”

 “Your ball—and Trishe’s poetry reading—was a chance to cry truce with one another, even a truce with emotion,” he said slowly. “Trishe is so good that way.”

 “Oh, yes. How I wish I had her skill with people.”

 “I am thinking I ought to ask her to be our ambassador to Colend,” he said.

 Meliara bit back a protest. She relied on Trishe to make court bearable!

 Vidanric said quickly, “I hate to see her go, too. She is one of the few people I trust to mend and not to tear the fabric of court life. But I need an ambassador at Colend, now more than ever, the news abroad is so troubling. And she is the only person I can trust to negotiate the pitfalls of Colendi court life, and to represent our interests.”

 “Good idea,” Meliara said, and watched the relief in his face. “What was Colend like?”

 He began with a few words, which turned into a torrent. They didn’t finish talking until the light of dawn glowed blue in the windows, surprising them. He had to get ready for the daunting number of scheduled tasks for the day.

 She returned to her rooms, almost dizzy with exhaustion, but her mood was euphoric. This is what his mother meant, she thought. He doesn’t think of me as yet another thing that needs his attention, he needs _me_.

 So what could she do, besides study every record on queenship? Remembering what Elestra had said about her perspective, she sat down with a quire of paper, a full bottle of ink, and began to write her memories. It wasn’t easy—certain incidents would cause her to throw down her pen and go out to ride, or walk, or see how the throne room was coming along. Though she knew that one cannot escape memory—they follow one like shadows.

 And so she would return to work.

 By Nee and Bran’s wedding, she had reached her stay as Galdran’s prisoner; by now she and Vidanric were meeting as often as they could at night when the rest of court retired. She brought the latest pages for him to read, once she thought they were ready, which never failed to spark long exchanges.

 She found that the smart of each angry, humiliating encounter entirely faded before the laughter and understanding they shared after talking it all over—what he’d said, what she’d said, what he’d thought, what she’d thought.

 There was a dip in productivity as autumn cooled into winter, and their wedding and coronation was nigh. Meliara tackled the planning, freeing him to deal with outer affairs, though she made a point of sitting in Petitioner’s Court once a week, so she could listen, and she sometimes walked into the throne room when no one else was about, and read bits of her memoir to Flauvic—the bits that pointed out his errors, or that illustrated how Vidanric got the better of the Merindars.

Neither Meliara nor Vidanric later remembered much of their coronation and wedding, beyond looking into one another’s eyes to say their vows.

 As winter closed them into a cold white world, Meliara picked up her pen again with good will. There was little governing to be done when the roads were under three feet of snow. Vidanric often had to ride out to visit sites of potential trouble, and deal with them in person.

Meliara finished her record in spring, her secret goal to have done with it by her Name Day. By then she had formed her new plan for occupying the time she couldn’t spend with Vidanric, one she meant to keep secret, lest it prove to be too difficult to attain: she would learn magic, and thus help the kingdom in her own way.

 Vidanric had left the week previous when her Name Day dawned. She wrote the last words in her record, smiling at the memory from the same day the year previous, sitting at her table on the other side of Athanarel, weepy because Branaric, and the world, had forgotten her Flower Day. Or so she thought.

 She took out the ring Vidanric had given her, and slipped it on. It would be her own private celebration as she went through a day that would be crammed with meetings—all the governmental concerns that they were now sharing. When he had to go away, she handled them alone.

As she tidied the stack of papers that made up the finished memoir, she reflected back on her commencement of her courtship by letter. In retrospect it had been the best Flower Day ever, even if there had been no flowers, or much of a celebration.

 She passed through the long day listening, sometimes agreeing, sometimes asking the scribes to record something, or to investigate further. Bran and Nee having returned to Tlanth for the winter, she knew there would be no celebration, but after all, wasn’t that part of life married to a crown?

 She ended the day at the Lamancan ambassador’s dinner, applauding at the music provided by a popular new trio, then trod wearily toward the royal bedchamber, where she resigned herself to another lonely night. At least she ought to sleep well.

 A page caught up with her, saying, “Your majesty.”

 Meliara suppressed the urge to look around and exclaim, “Who?” When she was tired, sometimes ‘your majesty’ even evoked horrid memories of Galdran. She could not yet believe it signified one small countess who had once worn a horse blanket for warmth, and who had danced away summers among the Hill Folk.

 “Yes, Tisa?”

 “You’re needed,” the girl said earnestly. “In the grand ballroom.”

 The grand ballroom? What could possibly have happened there? Surely Flauvic’s tree hadn’t suddenly thrown seeds through the wall, and sprouted a new tree in the marble?

 Her mind streaming with ridiculous scenarios (nothing frightening, or the Guard would have brought the message, surrounding her with earnest and muscular protection), she sped back downstairs and to the ballroom.

 The first thing that met her eye was the brilliant light of hundreds of candles. In a room filled with a galaxy of flowers, sunburst yellow to crimson to damson to pure white. The warm air was heady with their mingled perfumes. She clasped her hands and twirled around, dazzled with surprise and delight. Where had these flowers come from? It was so early in spring that these blooms could not have come from the garden—

“I ordered them,” Vidanric said, strolling forward, “from the north. They were sent by magic.”

 “Danric! You’re back!” Meliara cried.

 “Happy Flower Day, my darling heart,” he said, and she landed in his arms. Presently she pulled away, remembering her slipping hair, and her gown, which was all awry after the enthusiasm of their kisses. “A ball? Where are the guests?”

 “Just us.”

 Up in the gallery, Meliara’s favorite music group began to play, experienced and discreet, delighted to be part of the conspiracy.

 Under crystal illuminated by a hundred tongues of fire, surrounded by an extravagance of blooms that only a king could afford, they were—at least for a time—merely two lovers. _I’m not married to a crown_ , she thought, her eyes misting. _I’m married to a man who wears a crown, but he shares it with me_.

 And they began to dance.


End file.
